3 Years 3 Long Years
by WeKnowOurWingsAreFlawed
Summary: It's 3 years after the Reichenbach Fall. London's moved on from Sherlock, but John hasn't.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes – After the Fall

_'He still doesn't know. He's gone back to his therapist.'_

_'I know.'_

_'Are you sure about this? It has been three years.'_

_'He shouldn't know.'_

Holding his phone, the texts fresh in his mind, he stood under the trees watching his friend, his... He was stood in the cemetery, over the headstone with Sherlock Holmes' name on it. Doctor John Watson, army doctor of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers Regiment, stood over the grave, absorbed in his own mind, his memories of the adventures the two of them had been on together, solving crimes and the most recent memory of their last conversation...  
_"That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?"  
_John's eyes filled with tears, but he wouldn't let them fall. He couldn't let them fall. It would mean it's too real. Sherlock knew that John had been seeing him everywhere, calling his name in the middle of the night, waking from nightmares. His blog hadn't been updated much recently and his limp had returned, psychosomatic, yes, but it was still an indicator to his state of mind, his emotional state. It had been three years since he'd fallen.

Sherlock watched his friend turn away from the grave, his eyes red and sore, maybe that's what he felt like. Just like John, he couldn't understand these feelings he had when he had... When he had seen John start to fall apart at his funeral. John limped away, leaning heavily on his crutch and he rubbed at his face, trying to stop the tears before they rolled down his sunken cheeks. Sherlock didn't go after him, he knew exactly where his friend would be going and he knew that he had someone else to visit.

John found himself outside his therapist's office, he gripped his walking aid harder and limped into the building. He knew that seeing Sherlock running around through London was just his imagination, was just his memories showing him what adventures they'd been on in this city. At least that's what his therapist said. He wanted to believe Sherlock was alive, that this was all just a joke, and so he visited his grave on the anniversary of his death, to beg him to come back, to beg him not to be dead.

"Ahh, my dear younger brother." Mycroft Holmes was sat in his office chair, he had looked up when Sherlock had entered through the window of his office. "Not liking using doors these days?"  
"People would see me, Mycroft, you know that. You also know what would happen if they did see me."  
"Why are you here?"  
"You know why." Mycroft smiled, it was like a tiger who'd just eaten his fill, twice.

"You should see him, Sherlock. When you fell, he was the one who broke. Not you. So, how did you do it? How did Sherlock Holmes survive the fall?"  
"Wouldn't you like to know." Sherlock's voice remained neutral and calm, but really, he was annoyed with his brother.  
"Really Sherlock, are you really still like that? See John, he needs you, he's not himself anymore."  
"Mycroft, if you think that just asking me to see him will make me-"  
"I don't."  
"Then why-"  
"Because you need to see the facts, Sherlock. To see that you're hurting John."  
"Sherlock Holmes died that day 3 years ago, Mycroft. There is no way I can come back, and even if I did, my reputation has been ruined. Moriarty killed me, no matter what I could have done back then, I died." Sherlock's voice was suddenly louder, his words were faster and his breathing was heavier. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll take my leave."  
"Sherlock, what have you been doing these last few years?" Sherlock didn't turn around, nor did he answer. He just left the way he had came through the window and out into the busy London afternoon.

John's conversation with his therapist had ended like many had for the last 3 years, with him getting angry with her not believing him about Sherlock not being dead, getting angry and storming out. Well, storming out as much as is possible with a psychosomatic limp. He walked to the curb of the pavement, hailing a taxi cab. He decided he was going back to his apartment, that Sherlock had left behind three years ago and make himself a cup of tea. If he didn't break down before he even got to 221B Baker Street.

"Oh, John. Come in, come in." Mrs Hudson's worried tones brought an emotionally numb although tearful Dr. Watson into 221A, "I've just put the kettle on, I'll make you a cuppa tea, you rest your leg."  
"Damn my leg," John muttered. Just like the day when he and Sherlock had come to Baker Street to look at 221B. It brought back another flood of memories, but the doctor didn't know if he could keep on crying, his eyes felt so sore.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes – After the Fall

Sherlock found himself seated in the park, with a cup of coffee he'd bought from the stand. He was sure his disguise of a flat cap and a coat that was short, brown and nothing like his old familiar coat that had been put into storage like the rest of his belongings three years ago. He'd trusted Molly to keep hold of them for him, unless John ever decided to take them home, but he knew John wouldn't. He knew John better than anyone else however, after spending so much time alone with him in that little Baker Street flat. Sherlock distanced himself from emotions like... Like what he had felt for John, like what he'd felt in those few seconds during their last conversation.

"_I'm a fake..."  
_

No, he couldn't really be feeling what he felt for John back then, could he? Sherlock shook his head and took a sip from his coffee. He let his mind drift back over the last three, miserable years. Three long, lonely years. He gave a little thought to what Mycroft had told him, about seeing John and talking to him again. He'd been on his own before, but after having spent so long with John, he felt like there was something missing. As if he'd missed a clue at a crime scene.

John sat, his head in his hands, a cup of tea in front of him. Mrs Hudson was bustling around, chatting away, not really saying anything of importance. She was carefully avoiding talking about Sherlock, knowing that somehow, John had needed him in his life. She left him to his thoughts whilst she cooking up a hot meal for the army doctor. He was emotionally drained and had mentally exhausted himself thinking of ways that Sherlock could've faked his death. He just couldn't let it rest. In his mind, Sherlock was never a fraud, Moriarty was real and walking the streets of London beside Sherlock Holmes, he saw the battlefield.

He couldn't. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't do as his brother said. He knew going to see John would hurt him more than when he'd died. But still... He knew John's depression was locked in a downward spiral, he knew he was always thinking about how the great Sherlock Holmes had somehow survived the fall with nothing more than a scratch. The "dead" consulting detective's hand crushed the coffee cup, spilling hot coffee over his hand. He didn't feel it, although it left a red scold on his hand. He dropped the cup into the bin and hailed a cab. He'd made his decision.

"_Goodbye John"_

_'If I'm to see John... I need to be prepared. An unstable mind such as his at this present time isn't the best for such a surprise as this. But he's in pain, and I'm no longer able to keep myself from thinking without my emotions.' _Sherlock's thoughts went through his head, quick as lightning. He remembered how John had practically died as well, his soldier's spirit shattered, limp returning and begging Sherlock's grave every year to "not be dead". Sherlock paid a visit to St. Bart's before 221B Baker Street. He picked up his coat and scarf which he favoured. Passing by Molly was difficult. She had counted, she'd always counted and when she saw him stood there, she burst into tears, touching his face, his chest, looking at him with her searching eyes. Sherlock's voice was quiet and calm, "Molly... It's me, I'm still alive. You're not seeing a ghost. They don't exist anyway." She nodded, still crying, "Sherlock... Y-Y-You... I watched you d-d-die! I thought I'd helped you fake your death, but... Y-Y-You just didn't turn up or tell me that you weren't dead for three years!" Her tears stopped being that of overwhelming sadness, but of anger. She hit him, shouting, "THREE YEARS!" Her tears took over and her voice quietened, "Three years, Sherlock. No phone call, no email, nothing."  
"I know, I'm sorry Molly."  
"You said you trusted me, always."  
"I know. I am truly sorry." Molly sagged, Sherlock caught her, before she hit the floor and pulled her into a brief hug. It had been a while since he had hugged anyone, it felt good. But it also made his own eyes feel damp.  
They stayed like that for a while, until Molly collected herself together and pulled away, pushing him and taking a seat in one of the office chairs. She pulled a tissue out of her pocket, gently wiping away her tears. It was an old, familiar gesture, that had started three years ago.

John sat in his comforting chair by the fireplace in 221B, he'd barely eaten any of the food that Mrs Hudson had cooked for him. He rose, going to his room. He knew exactly what to do. He was calm, he was quiet, he was sorry.

"_Nobody could be that clever."_

He was staring down at his gun, remembering everything, tears falling down his sunken cheeks onto the metal. He closed his eyes, deciding to pull the trigger on the count of three. He placed the barrel against his temple. He was alone. Truly alone in this soundless darkness. He spoke clearly. "One." He didn't know how he could go on the way he has been anymore. "Two." He couldn't. And he whispered, his voice cracking, "I'm so sorry, Sherlock."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock Holmes – After the Fall

Sherlock ran up to 221 Baker Street, unlocking the door. He knew Mrs Hudson would probably be taking another one of her soothers for her hip, so he belated the notion of speaking to her first, taking the stairs up to 221B two at a time. He opened his old flat's door quietly, and heard John's muffled sniffs as he walked into his old apartment. It looked exactly as he remembered it, including the wall with the smiley face painted on and bullet holes. He didn't look around, he just wanted to see John. His heart pounding in his chest, he opened the door soundlessly into John's room. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock" John croaked. He was pointing his gun at his head, and was ready to pull the trigger.

"John." Sherlock's own voice was cracking, his breath was heavier than it should have been and seeing John holding a gun to his head made his heart pound painfully.

John's eyes never opened, he hesitated in saying "Three" and pulling the trigger. "Sherlock?"  
"It's me, John. I'm here. Put the gun down, John. Please."  
"It's not you, you're just another hallucination. You're not real, you can't be. It's my mind playing tricks on me, I've come to understand that now." When he had left his therapist's earlier, he had began to think maybe, just _maybe_, she was right and Sherlock was really, truly dead.

"John. Open your eyes. Look at me."  
_"Look up. I'm on the rooftop."_  
"NO!" John's pained voice shot through the room, through the flat. "No. You're not real. This isn't real."  
"John, do this for me. Give me the gun." The doctor slowly opened his sore, tearful eyes. "Deep breaths, John." John did as he was told, breathing steadily in and exhaling with a few more tears dripping off his chin. But he still had the gun pressed to his temple, finger on the trigger, but his hand was shaking now.

"I'm sorry. You're not real. I can't live like this anymore." He closed his eyes.

Not a word escaped from either of them as Sherlock pushed John's wrist against the wall, making his short friend fall backwards and himself with him. The gun went off. The bullet embedded itself into the wall and John finally opened his eyes and _saw_. Here was Sherlock, protecting him from himself. Sherlock Holmes. Not a hallucination. Real. _Real_. He raised his arm and-

"OW!" Sherlock backed off from John, a hand pressed to his face, his left cheekbone to be precise. There was a cut where John's blow had landed, just as there had been when...

"_Punch me."  
"Punch you?"  
"Yes, punch me, in the face. Didn't you hear?"  
"I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext."_

John held another fist ready, but Sherlock's grip caught hold of his wrist, "John."  
"You died Sherlock. You BLOODY DIED!" His eyes portrayed emotions of anger and a sadness so great that Sherlock's arm fell to his side, his own eyes finally betraying him and wept. "I know John, I'm truly sorry."  
The army doctor sagged. He fell to the floor and even more tears slipping down his pale features, Sherlock knew what condition John had been in for the last three years, he'd gotten pale, hardly going out, only to visit his grave or therapist. He hardly ate, barely slept soundly.  
"Three years, and nothing. Why, Sherlock?"  
"Because you would've died if I didn't. You, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade... You'd all have died if I didn't."  
"H-How are you... How'd you...?" He didn't need too finish the question he couldn't form, Sherlock did that for him. His breath becoming steadier, but his voice still croaky from the tears forcing themselves out, he whispered, "With a little help from some friends."  
John looked up at him, "I believed in you, Sherlock. I believed you weren't a fraud."  
"Just like I said John, it's just a magic trick."  
"_It's a trick. Just a magic trick." _  
Sherlock sat on the floor of John's bedroom next to what he'd been calling his friend, but he wasn't sure what his feelings were trying to tell him. He felt John's warm body's shaking start to slow beside him. No, not beside him, leaning on him. They were sat on the floor, Sherlock's coat was pulled around John, or what could have been pulled around him, and the army doctor had fell asleep, leaning on the consulting detective's shoulder. Sherlock hadn't smiled for a lifetime, but right then, right there, with John right next to him... He smiled. When he would awaken, he'd talk to Mrs Hudson. His thoughts blurred together and he fell asleep with an arm draped over John's shoulders. _Home._


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock Holmes – After the Fall

Blurry vision greeted his sleep-deprived eyes as he woke. John Watson, ex-army doctor, rubbed away the cloudiness of his vision and took note of his position. He was still on the floor of his 221B bedroom, leaning against a warm presence. He noticed Sherlock's coat was around him, the consulting detective's arm was too, draping across his shoulders. John smiled, Sherlock was home. Things would get better again. He knew he wouldn't leave him. He sighed, he didn't want to move, but he was gasping for a drink. He slowly, carefully moved away from Sherlock and rose to his feet. He no longer needed his crutch, and he padded out into the kitchen, closing the door most of the way.

Sherlock stirred from his sleep. He briefly noticed John moving out the room and closing the door softly before he went back to dozing.

He awoke again, to find the smell of bacon and eggs drifting through the cosy flat. Sherlock stood, stretching. He shambled out to John, who turned away briefly from the stove to look over his shoulder, "Are you going to eat now that you're back?"  
_'Ding.'  
_"Yes please, if you don't mind, John." Sherlock replied, pretending he didn't notice John's cheeks carry a tinge of red as he pulled out his phone, _'I knew you would eventually, little brother.'_ Mycroft, obviously, he ignored it, putting it straight back into his pocket.  
He looked up at John, the doctor was still watching him, he felt his cheeks heat up and lifted the newspaper from the table that was still holding all of his science equipment in front of his face to hide the fact. "Sherlock, are you alright?"  
"Of course I am, why wouldn't I be?" John turned around. "Well... I know I'm not, you left me alone for 3 years Sherlock, and I couldn't take it, I wasn't entirely sane, I started imagining you everywhere and I..." John trailed off and Sherlock put the newspaper back down, "You, what John?"  
"I couldn't think about anything else other than you. I lost my job, became depressed, I..." he couldn't finish, instead another tear dripped down from his eye.

He closed his eyes and felt something soft gently wipe away the tear and caress his face. He went to open them when, "No, don't open your eyes John." It was a whisper so delicate and soft but it was the loudest sound in the flat. "Shh..." Sherlock murmured, next to his ear. Then, there, where the tear had been, a soft brush of lips against skin.

Sherlock hadn't wanted to let John know this way, but he couldn't anymore. He couldn't let John feel this way without knowing how he felt, how his feelings towards his friend had changed. He had no idea about how John would react, but he had to. He just knew he had to.

His hand held Sherlock's hand to where he'd placed it to caress his face, as the detective pulled away after the shortest time. "Sh-Sherlock..." he whispered, his face blushed a deeper red and he leaned up on his toes, planting his own short kiss on the corner of Sherlock's lips, before turning back to the cooking pan. He smiled to himself as he felt Sherlock's arm's wrap around his waist in a hug, the detective's chin leaning on his shoulder. "John, I..."  
"I know, Sherlock." he served up the bacon and eggs on two plates, and Sherlock took his off of him, turning back to the table and chairs.

There was only one place that had been cleared from the equipment, so Sherlock, balancing his plate on one hand, cleared another space opposite of John's. Moving the newspaper to where he could see it while he ate. "I want to speak to Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade."  
"Are you sure that's wise?"  
"I want to be alive again, to solve crimes like we once did. It's hard not doing anything, it's boring."  
"Sherlock, I haven't spoken to Lestrade since you died..."  
"I know."  
John was about to say, "How could you possibly know?" But he knew Sherlock well enough to keep his mouth quiet and instead say, "So, what are you going to say to them? 'Hi, Mrs. Hudson, hi, Lestrade, look I'm not dead.'"  
Sherlock smiled, humoured. "No, of course not. I'm going to write a letter explaining how I'm alive and I'm going to give it to you to deliver to the police station, as for Mrs. Hudson... Well, why don't you call her up now?"  
"What are you going to say, Sherlock?" John demanded.

_'This is insane' _John thought to himself as he stood outside 221A, he knocked on the door and waited while his heart decided to palpitate inside his chest quite painfully. Mrs. Hudson opened the door, "Hello John, dear. What can I do you for?"  
"Sherlock's alive, Mrs. Hudson, come upstairs and see for yourself."  
There must have been something about his facial or body language because Mrs. Hudson didn't question it, rather than look at John with a questioning look and didn't say anything as she went past him and hustled up the stairs, John in tow.


End file.
